Lookout
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Roderick and Louise have a conversation about Claire.


**Title**: _Lookout_ (1/1)

**Universe**: _Secrets_

**Pairing**: Roderick Nelson/Louise Sinclair

**Rating**: PG-13/R

**Summary**: Partners keep an eye out for one another. Especially when one of them starts slipping away.

**Author's Note: **It's probably a bad thing that Roderick flows so easily for me when I write. But what can I say? He's incredibly (and apparently endlessly) fascinating to me.

. . .

"What do you see in her?" Louise asked one night, as she and Roderick lay sprawled across the floor, naked and, for the time being, sated. She was massaging his aching scalp with a free hand—he suspected she'd pulled some of his hair out earlier—and he'd been enjoying the soothing touch when she spoke. He lay with his head resting against her pelvis, and every once in a while, he dipped his nose into the tuft of blonde hair between her legs to smell her. A woman's greatest perfume, he was convinced, was the scent of her naked desire—enhanced only by the accompanying current of her fear.

Louise didn't give him any fear—she never had, not once—but he didn't mind. He didn't come to her to terrorize her—he had someone else for that, after all. He came to Louise because she was his partner; she had stood by him for years and, more importantly, she had laid beside him for years. She knew his body and what he wanted almost as keenly as he did. And though she could not offer him her fear, she had other ways through which she could tantalize him.

But her enticing scent turned sour once she spoke, and he began to lift his head and move away from her. Their time was over for tonight, and there was no need for conversation afterwards—besides, he had other duties to attend to. The little town of Havenport about twenty miles away would need its sheriff come sun up, and he better get going if he wanted to shower and eat before heading into the station. He sat up, and was about to stand up, when she placed a pale, delicate hand on his wrist.

He smirked unconsciously at the touch. Out of her entire body—more so than her tits or her puss or her ass—he liked her hands the best. They were so small, so light—and yet they were capable of killing a man (or woman) with a mere twist of their muscles. She ran her deceptively thin fingers against the length of his inner wrist, tracing the veins and tendons there. With just one scrape of her perfectly manicured nails, he knew from experience, she could slice through his skin and draw blood. His pulse quickened at the thought, and he felt the extra blood gravitate down towards his cock.

"Really," she pressed, running the edges of her nails against the blue lines of his veins, digging in just hard enough to elicit a prick of pain but nothing more, "what do you see in the wife, Roderick? Why do you keep going back? What's so special about her, of all people?"

He could hear the curiosity ring clear in her voice, and it made him pause a moment. He'd been expecting judgment. Anger. He knew she didn't approve of what he was doing, and yet… Here she was, giving him a chance to explain himself.

He felt a rush of gratitude—almost warmth, but not quite—for her. _This_ was why they were partners: because even when she didn't understand his motives, she gave him the benefit of the doubt where his actions were concerned. And even when she was furious over his actions, she always gave him an opportunity to tell his side of the story.

"She's a challenge," he answered truthfully after a moment. He thought back to the first time he'd gone into her room. It had been a risk, certainly—potentially a fatal risk. If Joe had been there with her when he'd come to her bedroom… But that had been half of the thrill, he recalled. The thought that Joe might've been there, that he might've walked in…and seen Roderick taking what was his and claiming it for his own—that was what drove him, so hard and so fast, to have her.

Louise cleared her throat quietly. Roderick had known her long enough to be able to tell that it was a sound of distaste, not impatience. She did not approve of his methods, nor his actions, that was clear. "And now?" she asked. "It's been months since you first had her; what is she to you now? She can't possibly be a challenge anymore." Louise's snide tone seemed to suggest she didn't believe someone like Claire could ever be considered a "challenge" in the first place.

Roderick gnawed on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly, unsure of how to answer. He wasn't even certain of the answer himself. What was she to him now, after all?It was true she wasn't a challenge anymore. He'd had her in nearly every way imaginable. He'd made her bleed and cry. He'd made her expose her most tightly held of secrets and laughed at them. There was virtually nothing new left to garner from her. And yet…

"There's still a thrill," he told Louise. He didn't know how to explain how his heart pounded a little faster every time he approached and entered her room; he didn't know how to explain the mix of fear and arousal that gripped him as he took her. There was always that chance—however miniscule—that Joe might walk in. He came to visit her at odd hours, sometimes, and his visits were becoming more and more frequent as he grew more and more desperate to win her long-cooled affections. There was always a chance he would see…

Louise seemed to sense his train of thought, for her next words were a clear warning: "You know once he takes her for his own, you'll have to give her up for good. You won't be able to have her any more, not even in secret."

Roderick nodded. He'd thought of this before. "I know," he said.

"She's _his _wife first, your plaything second—_if at all_. You need to watch your back and keep yourself in check. I don't want trouble at my doorstep."

"I _know_," Roderick repeated, but the words put that sour taste back in his mouth as they came out. He'd never been good at sharing his toys, and even worse at letting his favorites go completely. As strange as it sounded, he suspected he might actually miss her, once Joe took her away. She had such a high entertainment value. What would he do for laughs once she was gone?

Louise raised her thin blonde eyebrows at him, as if sensing his thoughts. "Will you be able to let her go without running your mouth?" She both sounded and looked doubtful of his capabilities, with her lips pursed the way they were and her arms crossed over her chest. She reminded him a little of a schoolmarm from his youth.

"Of course I will," he answered at once, a little sharper than intended. Louise always cut a little close to the bone—one of her specialties—and he hadn't yet mastered hiding his true feelings form her. He probably never would be able to. She knew him too well. "It won't be a problem," he added, making an effort to speak more calmly this time around.

"I should hope it wouldn't be," Louise replied tartly, unaffected by his meaningless promise.

Roderick swallowed down his biting reply for once. He and Louise got along because they both put the success and survival of the group and its mission above all else. They differed, however, in the idea that harmony among its members was just as important. Roderick couldn't give a fuck about harmony. He'd work the group into the ground if it meant their collective objectives were achieved, and he wouldn't feel anything close to remorse about it. But Louise had a sort of sixth sense for the group's reliability to one another, and she tried to always make sure that it was on an even keel. She felt it was especially important that they all believe in and trust their leader wholeheartedly, and that he feel the same for them.

She had never, ever, been in agreement with any of Roderick's complaints about Joe. He was a god to her, like he was to most of the others. But Roderick had been brought in by Joe personally—and so early on—that he was privy to some of the man's shortcomings. In fact, he seemed to be the only one to believe that Joe actually _was _a flesh-and-blood man. The rest saw him as some supernatural being: their own personal liberator and savior.

Roderick knew better.

Joe was flawed, he knew. He had faults like any man—but they had become only magnified once Joe had escaped and set about creating his new world order. At first, Roderick had been behind him like anyone else. He had tied his entire life to Joe, and he was eager to see the man succeed in any and every way possible. But his dreams were too lofty, Roderick soon realized, and, looking back now, Roderick wondered how he had ever gone along with this plan. How had he ever thought it was a good idea? How had he ever once believed that it would really work?

The escapes from prison had been easy enough—grease a few palms here, twist a few arms there—but all the rest proved almost more difficult than it was worth. They'd lost four operatives alone while trying to bring Joey Matthews home to his father; another half-dozen trying to reclaim Claire Matthews; and more were dying every day as the FBI attempted to be just as merciless as its enemies. Their group could make more operatives—they were doing so right now, in fact, every day—but it took a lot of time, intense training, and round-the-clock supervision. They didn't have any of those luxuries right now, though Joe didn't seem to notice. He was too focused on reuniting with his family to notice _anything_, it seemed—least of all the glaring reality that his family didn't _want _to be reunited with him. No, that little detail did not line up with the rest of Joe's plan—the plan that he'd spent nine years languishing in prison, laboring to perfect—and so for the time being, it seemed, he'd chosen to ignore it.

Instead, he focused daily on chipping away at his son and wife's defenses, using soft smiles and nice dinners and lavish presents as his chisels. But Claire was harder than stone, it seemed, and would not be broken—not easily, and maybe not at all. Her son tended to follow her lead on just about every matter, even going so far as to hide himself halfway behind her legs like a toddler when met with his father. Joey hadn't been scared of his father when they'd first met—he'd been wary, yes, but not openly frightened—but all that had changed when Claire had joined them. While at first the boy had been curious about his father, now he wouldn't even look at him, let alone speak to him.

Roderick had no doubt that the boy's sudden change of attitude was attributed wholly to his mother's presence and influence. Roderick suspected she'd been whispering in her son's little ear every chance she got, warning him against being fooled by his father, or by any of these people that surrounded them, at times, like little more than prison guards in this great mansion. Roderick had no doubt Claire had extra warnings about him—the evil man parading around as the good sheriff—though he suspected she spared her son from the more intimate details. The specifics didn't matter, however, for the result was the same: Joey Matthews avoided him like the plague, same as he did for his father. Roderick didn't mind. He had never liked nor understood children. He supposed the reason behind his aversion to them was borne, in part, out of jealousy. He had never been given the chance to be a child himself, and a very large part of him didn't want to know what it was he had missed out on. It would only make the dark reality of his young years that much more brutal, he was sure.

"I can find somebody else to have," he told Louise, shaking off her hand and finally getting to his feet. She followed him like a shadow as he moved about the room to find his clothes. They were strewn all around, as if a hurricane had whirled its way through here. Roderick smiled to himself, remembering their vicious coupling these past few hours. He supposed there actually _had _been a hurricane that had blown through here. "There's always somebody else," he added over his shoulder as he pulled his jeans on. He caught her cautious eye. "You know that as well as I do."

"I do," she nodded, reaching her hands behind her head and pulling her thin blonde hair back up into its usual ponytail. He turned to watch as she gathered the thousands of miniscule strands up off her shoulders and into her hands. The only times she ever let her hair out of its tightly controlled fastenings was when they had sex, and only sometimes at that. He suddenly found himself wondering if she let her hair down for other men—or women. Who else had taken fistfuls of those golden strands in hand, gripping them with desperate lust? Who else had watched that silky hair fly about her face and cascade down her back as she arched her body during her climax?

He turned away from her and ducked down to pull his shirt off the ground and over his head before he could let jealousy spark and consume him. She was his partner, yes, but that didn't mean she was his alone to have. She was open to other options, as was he. They were enduringly fair to one another in that regard, and had been for years.

"Look." Louise appeared at before him, somehow already fully dressed and perfectly presentable. Her arms were crossed over her small chest. He took one look at her, and he wanted her bare again. "I'm not telling you what to do," she began.

Roderick laughed aloud at the idea, his lips splitting a wide grin. "As if you could."

She ignored his mockery. "All I'm saying is, I want you to be careful. Things are…" She waved her head side to side, to indicate so-so conditions. "Things are all right for now. But if we lose you because Joe finds out what you're doing with his wife…"

Roderick nodded, understanding. It was not any sort of personal concern or sense of right and wrong that drove her to say this. She did not want to protect him. She did not want to protect Claire. She wanted—as always—to protect the group. If Roderick were to be killed, not only would his loss set back their operation by years, it would also rupture the delicate balance of the group. They had all looked to him for instructions and decision-making these past few years, with Joe still locked up, and they still looked to him when Joe wasn't around or—as was becoming worryingly and increasingly common—too preoccupied to be bothered. With Roderick cut from the group, there would be a vacuum where his place had once securely rested and, undoubtedly, a bloody fight to fill the void. The group, and its entire mission, could shatter completely if he were to be taken out of the equation and his office left up for grabs. It would be worse than anything the FBI could ever do to them. Those federal pigs could pick off their operatives, they could discover their backgrounds and exploit whatever weaknesses they might have found there, but if the organization began to crumble from within...

There would be no coming back from that. There would be no power, no success, no long-lasting glory. There would be no true-to-life biographies, no feature films. There would be nothing but death, and not the type that Roderick spent his days and nights lusting after.

He did not wish to die like this: not here, not now, and especially not for a man who hardly seemed to spare a single thought for him anymore.

He met Louise's eyes again. "I'll be careful," he told her, and held her gaze for a few seconds longer so that she would know he meant it. Then he stepped aside and headed to the door, picking up his shoes on the way.

"You know she'll crack one day," Louise warned, calling after him, ever the cautious one. "She's weak, Roderick—if you keep pushing her like this, she'll crack and she'll say something to Joe and there will be nothing to save you then. No one will step up to defend you." She paused a moment, perhaps letting that sink in, before adding, in a bit of a quieter voice, "Not even me, Roderick. I won't put my head on the chopping block, not even for you."

She paused, waiting for Roderick to say something, but he didn't have a reply. Ever since they'd become partners, he'd pictured them going down together, usually in a spray of bullets with their heads held high. At the very least, he had expected himself to be the sole survivor of the pair. He was never supposed to be the first to go. And it was never supposed to be at Joe's hand.

But Louise had always been more calculating than him, always more cautious, and she never took stupid risks like he did. She would never try to do what he'd done with Claire—at least not while Joe was around to take notice and dole out punishments. That was why Roderick and Louise worked so well together, because her pragmatic side evened out his impulsivity. This time around, however, she hadn't been around to rein him in until it was too late. And Claire wasn't some pesky college girl they could do away with in the middle of the night. Her absence would be noticed, and heavily investigated.

_You know she'll crack one day, _Louise had predicted, and Roderick had to admit that she was right, as usual. It was no secret that Claire was not built for their life, nor accustomed to their kind—let alone the personal treatment she received at his hands and various other body parts. She _would _crack one day, probably soon, and then he would be disappeared, and no one would ask after him or care about his banishment. They would all go on with their war, and he would be left behind, locked in some dank cellar or basement room to live out the rest of his days in unchecked agony.

He knew he wouldn't get a bullet to the brain and a shallow grave; Joe would never let him off so easy. He'd get months, possibly years, of torture. Joe was a very patient man, and he never forgot a single person who wronged him. He kept mental lists. He kept a tally of offenses. And he always set the record straight, always.

And Roderick would, no doubt, top the charts of wrong-doers. Maybe he'd even beat out Ryan Hardy for the number-one slot. The thought made Roderick smile for a second, for it would be an honor just by itself; it would be a real accomplishment, one worthy of recognition. And if it did happen, well—maybe it would change things. Maybe then Joe would finally think him deserving of more than a second's attention. Maybe then Joe would realize the mistake he'd made in shunting Roderick aside upon his return to power like Roderick was no better than the others, like he hadn't sacrificed his entire life to Joe's cause. Maybe…

Louise was tugging on his arm, at his side once more, and he turned to look at her. "What?" he asked. He hadn't been listening to whatever she'd been saying. He'd been lost in his own head—down a rabbit hole of anxious predictions—imagining Joe scraping the length of his ribcage with a molten knife; imagining his own screams of torment as his bones were cleared of muscle and tissue while they were still attached to the rest of his body. Roderick had always been good at taking pain, but Joe knew his weaknesses, and he knew how to hurt better than anyone Roderick had ever met—and Roderick had met some people these past few years; he had recruited some real psychos to their team.

"I said, _Be careful_," Louise repeated, annoyance sharpening her usually calm tone. She did not like to be ignored. "If you want her," Louise counseled, "go to someone else. You can have anyone here; you know that."

Roderick nodded, but only because it was expected of him. He wasn't thinking about being careful. He wasn't thinking about having one or two of the other women here—nor was he thinking of about toying with some of the men. He was thinking about his fast approaching and soon to be all-consuming future of torture. He was thinking about making the most of what few weeks or maybe just days he must have left.

He was thinking about Claire. And he was thinking about how to best stick it to Joe, one last time, for ruining this good thing they had had by paying attention to the wrong fucking details.

Joe would get them all killed, that was practically a fact now—it was just a matter of time at this point, really—but Roderick would make sure he lived his own life to the fullest first.

"I'll be careful," he told Louise, but he didn't offer her any other promises. He would be careful, yes. But he would also do what he felt he needed to do.

. . .

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading! Reviews/comments would be greatly appreciated!

**PS – **This is meant to be a precursor to _We Are All Our Own Devil. _Let me know if you think it fits into that canon.


End file.
